#1 KC GOES TO CAMP

By J.J. Colagrande

I was going to Camp. Camp Bisco. And as a writer. A real paid writer. Can you believe it? Dickie should’ve seen me, the fucker. I might not have been making Merrill Lynch money like him but at least I chased my dream and I wasn’t a momma’s boy. I didn’t give up, in fact this was just the beginning. It’s like the sticker I saw in Mariaville at the Lake with the little convenience store. It was on a red Saab with Ontario plates: Those who abandon their dreams will discourage yours. Ya gotta have a dream. You know that store sure made a killing during Bisco–I tell ya–and they were nice people too–I sat on a bench outside and looked out on the Lake, even journaled a little. It was so pretty. I was so close to the festival, like minutes away, yet so far from the city. Staring into the lake was the first time I allowed myself to feel the peace and tranquility upstate New York offered–such a contrast to the summer shithole I crawled out of on the Lower East side–a shithole I wouldn’t sacrifice for the world, not even one cockroach. Still–I knew what my boy Lee meant when he said go-upstate-and-get-your-head-together. I even walked up to the Mariaville Lake Bed and Breakfast, no reason really, didn’t want a room, just sniffing around like a hound dog. The place was overrun with production people from Bisco. They were nice and gave me a piece of fried chicken when I said I was there on a press pass. See. I don’t need money. Little things like a piece of chicken totally suffice. So check out how it happened for me. Someone I met at Oracledang. Some dude who bought my book. He read it, liked it, passed it on, and it made its way to some editor at Headstash who’s sending me to Camp as a music journalist. Twenty-one years young and a music journalist. Almost Famous, ha. Headstash is an awesome blog. Did you even see the Bisco 9 lineup? Heavy on electronica. Bisco ain’t no commercial festival, like Bonnaroo or Coachella. It was a dream come true. And speaking of dreamy, Keith was coming up. I drove, he planned to fly up the next day, rent a car. He had an audition so he couldn’t drive with me. I already went to Walmart in Amsterdam to pick up some things: bug spray, sunscreen, Gold Bond powder (for Keith–I knew he’d forget), two new fold-up chairs, ice, and fresh produce and stuff. I couldn’t wait. The blog only wanted a review of the festival, but I wanted to write about as many bands as I could. The line-up was sick.